One night, a couple of years ago, I laid me down to sleep and discovered my foot was numb. It was numb like Adam Sandler's chronically frostbitten foot in the cinema masterpiece "Mr. Deeds," wherein he invites people to whack it with a fireplace poker while he smiles blissfully.

An hour later, my foot was still numb.

Stroke. That's it, I thought. I'm having a stroke.

The problem with even thinking a thought like "I'm having a stroke," is that immediately you start having a stroke, more or less.

But I just couldn't face going all the way to the emergency room for this, so I just went back to sleep, the next morning my foot was still numb, so I went to the walk-in care center and the guy there gradually figured out my cross-country ski book was too tight.